


Harry Potter Rewritten: The Philosopher's Stone

by star__maiden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Indian Harry Potter, Indian James Potter, cause fu jk rowling, while this book stays close to the orginal later books wont
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24761821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star__maiden/pseuds/star__maiden
Summary: Harry Potter, but not as you remember.For as long as he can remember, Harry Potter has lived in a cupboard under the stairs at Number 4 Privet Drive. As his 11th birthday approaches, someone seems very determined to send him a letter - and his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seem just as determined to make sure he never reads it. But what could a letter say that's so important? And why can Harry do things that no one else can?this is fueled completely by my hatred on JK Rowling.
Relationships: theyre eleven
Kudos: 6





	1. The Prologue

Privet Drive is a very ordinary street.

It has very ordinary houses, filled with very ordinary people. Nothing interesting has ever happened there. Funnily enough, it's where our story -that is the very opposite of ordinary- begins.

At number four, live Mr and Mrs Dursley. There is nothing truly spectacular about them. Mr Dursley is the director of a firm called Grunnings, which makes drills. He is a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he does have a very large moustache. Mrs Dursley is thin and blonde and has nearly twice the usual amount of neck. She puts this to good use, spending much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys have a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

But one thing you must learn very quickly, dear reader, is that looks can be deceiving. That sometimes the things we need the most will come from the unlikeliest of places.

Take Mrs Dursley, for example. If you met her, you would think you were meeting the most ordinary person in the world. If you met her, perhaps in a supermarket choosing whether to buy red apples or green, you wouldn't look twice. What if I told you Mrs Dursley has a secret? A secret that is the very opposite of ordinary.

You see, Mrs Dursley had a sister.

Mrs Potter could always make strange things happen. Things no one should be able to do, but she did anyway. Strange, wonderful things.

Mrs Dursley did not talk about her sister.

Mrs Dursley did not talk about Mrs Potter. She did not talk about Mrs Potter's husband, Mr Potter, who could also make strange things happen. She did not talk about their tiny baby boy, her nephew, either.

As far as Mrs Dursley was concerned (and Mr Dursley for that matter) the Potters did not exist.

And yet, they do. Well, I suppose I should say _did_.

-


	2. The Boy Who Lived

**Sunday, November 1st, 1981**

Mr and Mrs Dursley awoke to what should have been a perfectly ordinary day. It was dull and grey, but most days were this time of year.

As it was Sunday, Mr Dursley didn't go into work that day. If he had, he might have seen a peculiar sight. People of all ages dressed in robes and cloaks of all colours, owls flying in broad daylight. Followed by whispers about the Potters and their son.

But, alas, it was Sunday. Instead, he watched Dudley throw three tantrums before his morning nap, read the Sunday paper and listened to Mrs Dursley go on about what she saw Susan next door's daughter do. After Dudley woke from his nap, and force fed a snack, Mr Dursley tried to teach him a new word (won't!).

It was a truly uneventful day.

When Mrs Durley went outside to tend to the front garden (or pretend to anyway), she came face to face with a cat. It was a tabby, with odd rectangle markings around its eyes, and was sitting atop of the Dursley's garden wall. Mrs Dursley attempted to shoo it away, but it continued to watch her, its tail swaying side to side. Defeated, Mrs Dursley huffed and went to check on Dudley.

Dinner came and went, and after Dudley had been put to bed, Mr Dursley sat down to watch the evening news. He missed most of the reports, but caught the end:

“-the authorities have released very little information on the attack, but have set up a tip line. If you know anything, please call the number on your screen.” The reporter was standing in the middle of an empty street. “Back to you Ted.”

“Thank you, Jane. Awful business that, our hearts go out to the families involved. On a lighter note, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight. Today there has been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have changed their sleeping pattern.” The news reader allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday; they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early–it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? It was all very odd. He could hear footsteps approaching the living room and soon enough, Mrs Dursley was lying two cups of tea on the coffee table. She sat down on the couch and picked one cup back up, but didn't take a sip.

“Anything interesting on the news?” Mrs Dursley always asked that, claiming she liked to be up to date on current events. (She didn't, but she did like knowing things about other people's lives, so there's that.)

“Interesting? More like plain nonsense. Owls everywhere and apparently it was raining shooting stars in Yorkshire.”

Mrs Dursley pursed her lips. “Owls, did you say?”

“Yes, the bloody things are flying about in broad daylight. No one's sure why.”

Mrs Dursley didn't say anything, but was clutching her teacup so tightly it might have shattered.

“Petunia, dear, is something the matter?”

That seemed to snap Mrs Dursley out of it. She stood up so fast, a few drops of tea spilt on the carpet. “Oh, it's nothing Vernon. Just thinking.” She grabbed Mr Dursley's still untouched tea and made her way to the door. “It's getting late, we should go to bed.”

-

Outside, the cat that Mrs Dursley had tried in vain to get rid of still sat on the garden wall, showing no sign of sleepiness. Still as a statue, its eyes fixed on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was almost midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching. So suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles. His nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

The man didn't seem to realise that he had arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. He seemed to realise he was being watched, because he looked up at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again–the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the De-Luminator, until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the De-Luminator back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"Dumbledore, how did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed. "Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right," she said. "You'd think they'd be more careful, but no–even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent–I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight. Not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something. He didn’t, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

"A what?"

"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone–"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense. For eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched. Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, didn't notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know–oh, all right, Voldemort–was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too–well–noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore before replying. "The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss. The real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day. For neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are–are–that they're–dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped. "Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters' son, Harry. But–he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter. Voldemort's power somehow broke–and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded.

"It's–it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean–you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore–you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people less like us. And they've got this son–I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous–a legend–I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future. There will be books written about Harry–every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said, "Yes–yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it–wise–to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly. "But you can't pretend he's not careless. He tends to–what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight. It swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky. Then, a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked too big to be allowed, and so wild–long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorbike?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir–house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where–?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee, which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well–give him here, Hagrid–we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys' house.

"Could I–could I say goodbye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it–Lily an' James dead–an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered. She patted Hagrid on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets. He rejoined the other two and for a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle. Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall–Professor Dumbledore, sir." Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself on to the motorbike. He kicked the engine to life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I will see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver De-Luminator. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps. Privet Drive glowed orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could still see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous. He did not know he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles. Nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. He did not know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices:  
"To Harry Potter–the boy who lived!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Yes I did use a good chuck of JK Rowling's writing. It was pain to edit too, since she uses way too many adverbs and not enough full stops. I will have to do that again unfortunately, since for certain chapters it doesn't make sense to change it (like the sorting ceremony). Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed it!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: @star--maiden

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, but don't worry most chapters won't be. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr; @star--maiden


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